Autumn is Worse
by Benny The Crazed Cartoonist
Summary: Bog hates Autumn even more than he hates Spring. Allergic!Boggy and Nursemaid!Marianne. Oneshot.


**I love this movie and this pairing far more than is socially acceptable. And now poor Bog is victim to my adoration of fluffy sickfics.**

 **Forgive the mistakes, this barely went through the editing process. I love Butterfly Bog, but I do not own it.**

 **I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. :)**

* * *

Marianne scowled in irritation, throwing the scrap of parchment down on her dresser amongst a dozen other identical pieces, each saying the exact same thing, all bearing the mark of the Bog King. _No, you can't come just yet. I'll tell you when you can. Be patient._

She was sick of being patient. All Autumn he'd been blowing her off, like a dandelion seed on his shoulder. Since the love potion incident, they'd been together every day, touring his Kingdom or rebuilding his castle, but as Summer drew to a close he had brought her aside and told her until further notice, she was to stop coming into the Dark Forest.

 _Nothing's wrong,_ he'd said. _It's just entering into a delicate time of year. For my peace of mind, if no one else's, please don't come back until I summon you._

She'd been content to stay in her own Kingdom, convinced that this isolation would only take a few days, a week at the most. Now, nearing mid-Autumn, she was being torn apart, filled to the brim with emotion that wasn't entirely alien but different all the same. She would send letters to the castle every day by way of a messenger bug, asking when she could visit. Every day, she read the same refusal and the feelings would spill out of her like water over a dam. The numb hurt of abandonment. _Why is he pushing me away? Doesn't he love me anymore?_ Hopeless acceptance. _He's found another girl, that's the only explanation. I've been cast aside again._ Above all, however, was the burning, raging desire to see for herself, the thin thread linking her to Bog not yet broken. _Maybe something awful happens every year at this time. Maybe he's just trying to protect me._

When this idea wormed it's way into her mind, her body acted of her own accord. One hand slid instinctively to the sword at her left hip. As she fingered the cold steel, her nerve steeled as well. No way was _this_ princess going to be shoved to the side anymore! If Bog had a problem, he could take it up with her personally!

In a flash of movement, Marianne unfurled her wings and leaped out her window into the Autumn day, eyes narrowed half in protection from the wind, half in stubborn determination. The cool air stung her cheeks as she bee-lined for the border. There was not a sliver of hesitation in her movements as she shot past the primroses, their petals open wide to soak up whatever sunlight they could before Winter approached.

Ducking branches and weaving around thorn tendrils, Marianne barely registered herself twisting and turning through the hidden path Bog showed her, away from the eyes of his mushroom guards. If, for some reason, he wanted her away to hide something from her, she had no desire to alert him of her presence on his side of the border.

She darted through the forest as if she were born there, movements melding to match the environment. The flighty, air-headed manoeuvres of the Fairy Kingdom was lost in the no-nonsense, streamlined style the Dark Forest inhabitants adopted. Bog had shown her his way to move amidst the tangled undergrowth, and she liked it far better than her own Kingdom's flight pattern. Who needed flips and fancy twirls when it only got you stuck in a spider's web?

Marianne broke free of the path, angling upwards until she lighted on the glass dome of Bog's castle. There he was, folded into his throne with his staff leaning on one lanky leg. She slipped into the airy throne room through a hole in one wall and settled herself against a pillar, out of Bog's line of sight. Upon inspection, she could see no immediate reason why the King of the Dark Forest would want to keep her away. Everything was fine, construction was coming along nicely, there was nothing out of the ordinary.

So why did he want her out of the way?

In any case, he looked much too comfortable there on his high and mighty throne. Far too relaxed, undefended. Marianne grinned wickedly to herself, her hand drifting to the hilt of her blade. He should learn to keep his guard up, even in his own palace.

Metal sword singing as it was drawn from its sheath, Marianne fired herself the complacent King, battle cry ripping from her lungs. She had barely half a second to savour the pure _astonishment_ on his pointed face before one hand shot out and sword clashed with staff. A back swing, a block, and a thrust later, the two were in standstill, weapons pushing against each other, muscles trembling with exertion. Only then did the malicious features of the Bog King melt into recognition. " _Marianne?!_ "

She smiled sweetly. "Surprised to see me?" She flung herself into a series of counterattacks.

Bog blocked each and every one, but without the finesse Marianne had come to expect from him. "What are you _doing_ here?"

Her eyebrows furrowed slightly as they once again were locked in stalemate. Something was wrong. Over months of greeting him every day with a sword at his neck, she had learned his style. Today, though he managed to successfully stay her blade, he wasn't moving normally. His timing too slow, his staff held too low, his eyes alight with an emotion other than the exhilaration of the fight. When he spoke, his tone held none of the bantering sarcasm she'd come to love. It was... submissive? And... stuffy?

 _What_ was going on here?

Her question was answered immediately when Bog abruptly turned his head and sneezed into his shoulder.

The fight in Marianne died, the tip of her sword dropping to the ground. "Bog... you're _sick?!_ "

His response came immediately, voice defensive. "No!"

"What is it then?" She snapped, unwilling to take his rebut as a final answer.

Dropping his fighting stance, Bog reached into the depths of his exoskeleton and drew out a dirty handkerchief. The fairy winced slightly as he blew his nose with ferocity. He turned his glare to her, though the reason for his bad mood spawned elsewhere. "Let's just say I hate Autumn even more than I hate Spring."

Marianne couldn't help it. Almost immediately she doubled over in a fit of laughter, sword limp and useless at her side. Her sudden show of mirth at his expense made the Bog King flush an angry red, wringing the handkerchief self-consciously in his spindly fingers. "S-stop it! It's not funny!"

It took a moment for the Princess to regain her composure, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. "Sorry, sorry, but I just can't _believe_ it! Big, strong Bog King has _hay fever_!"

His glare at her was interrupted by another monstrous sneeze, sending her into a second peal of laughter.

Bog scowled at her reaction, and retreated to his throne where he plopped down tiredly. "Fine. Laugh. You're not the one feeling absolutely miserable."

His submission to her teasing glee was what effectively sobered Marianne. It wasn't in his nature to give in, and the fact that he did so easily indicated he must really have been feeling awful. Upon further inspection, she noted his outward appearance wasn't too great either.

Both blue eyes, so clear and sweet on a good day, were rimmed in red with dark black circles underneath. His nostrils were also tinged red, flaking and dry from excessive wiping. His normally regal posture was bent under exhaustion and fatigue and his wings were held limp down his back.

"Bog, you look terrible," Marianne commented, more out of concern than the desire to state the obvious.

Bog snapped back, "excellent observation. Nothing gets past you, does it Princess?"

"At least you're still well enough to have a witty comeback on hand. We can all breathe a sigh of relief now, can't we?" Marianne smirked. "Oh, wait. Not _all_ of us can."

"You think it's _fun_ feeling like you've got cotton stuffed in your head?" Moaned Bog, putting said cotton-stuffed head in his hands and massaging his temples.

Marianne became serious again, lifting off to hover by his shoulder. She tentatively reached out with one hand, hesitating slightly before setting it against Bog's back and rubbing up and down with practiced motions. Dawn always liked a backrub when she got sick, and Bog didn't seem to mind. He tensed at her touch initially, still not quite accustomed to physical contact, and then eased into it gratefully. Seeing her (dare she say it) love tormented like this hurt her soul.

Just like that, the pieces began to fall into place. "Oh, Bog," she breathed, "Is _this_ why you didn't want me to visit?"

He nodded dejectedly, not meeting her eyes. "A king should not be seen weak."

Marianne's eyes took on a steely edge at his words. She pulled away so abruptly that Bog lifted his head to see what she was doing. She moved so she was hovering in front of him, hands on her hips and mouth set in a determined line. "Then you won't be seen at all." In one swift move, she had grabbed his arm and pulled him off of his throne with surprising force. She started towards a hallway, leading him by the hand.

"What do you mean?" Bog asked, a little nervous. There was no telling what the fairy had in mind, and he couldn't come up with any ideas because the warmth of her hand around his was clouding any thought processes his already muddled brain could've put forth. "Where are we going?"

"Your room. You look like you haven't slept in days."

This was more or less true, but Bog balked nonetheless. Marianne drew to a halt when his hand slipped from hers and turned. "What's wrong?" She apparently took his hesitation for refusal, because her face slipped into its 'won't-take-no-for-an-answer' state. "And this is _not_ a discussion, Bog. You are _going_ to bed _right now_ , whether you like it or not." She grasped the hilt of her sword, eyes narrowing dangerously.

Any thought of resisting left Bog's mind in an instant. There was no way he could beat a determined Marianne in a fight, not like this. And, truthfully, the prospect of bed sounded like heaven to him at the moment. Instead, he grinned tiredly at her, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. "My room's the other way."

Marianne stuck her nose in the air, feigning haughty to hide her blush. "You lead then, oh wise and mighty king."

Bog's grin merged into a half-satisfied smirk as he turned back the way they came, Marianne coming to float by his left. He led her through the twists and turns of his newly rebuilt castle ( _"It needed renovation anyway."_ ), conversation peppered with frequent sneezes and nose-blowings on his part, leaving him increasingly drained to the point where, when they got to the huge wooden double doors that led to his bedchambers, he felt barely strong enough to stand. Curse these _blasted_ allergies! Why did this _always_ happen to him? And in front of _Marianne_ , of all people!

Not waiting for an invitation, Marianne pushed the doors open herself (much to the relief of Bog. He wasn't certain he could even lift his arms right now). They entered a large, airy room, lit not only by the round chandeliers above, but also by an enormous curved window making up the entire back wall. Against one wall was a broad, smooth strip of bark, curved into a shape like a hammock. It was covered in pillows and blankets of all sorts. It was different than Marianne's own flower bed, but it looked so comfy that she was tempted for half a second to curl up and fall asleep. The rest of the room was fairly bare, save a stand by the door for Bog's staff.

Marianne pointed to the bed, matching Bog's frown with her own. "Go on." A smile pulled at the corner of her mouth. "Unless you need help getting into your kingly jammies."

"I don't _wear clothes_." He snapped, but followed her finger and slunk beneath the mountain of bedding.

The Princess came to stand near the head of the bed. "Now, you are going to stay there, and anything you need will be brought by me. Anything at all. No arguments, understand?"

Bog grumbled. "Sometimes, Tough Girl, you can be a real~"

"Wonderful person, I know," interrupted Marianne. Then her triumphant expression drifted into something kinder. She pulled on one edge of the blankets, attempting to make things more comfortable for the king. "Seriously. Anything." Her hand brushed against his cheek for a nanosecond, and then she pulled it back, unwilling to meet his eyes.

It was in that moment that Bog suddenly found the wall to be enormously interesting, for he didn't look into her eyes either. "Tea," he growled, albeit softer and gentler than normal. "With... honey."

"Consider it done." With this, Marianne flew from the room.

As she closed the doors behind her as quietly as she could, she sensed something was amiss. Pausing for a second, she identified the uneasiness.

She was being watched.

Drawing her sword, she spun around to face the intruder~ only to find that the 'intruder' happened to be Bog's entire posse of henchmen. They were all crammed into the hallway, watching her intently with wide, half-curious and half-wary stares.

Silence reigned for a moment as Marianne and the goblin gang assessed each other. She slid her sword back into its scabbard, and cleared her throat nervously.

"Attention, my good... uh, people!" _Way to command the situation, Marianne. Your father would be so proud._ "As most of you already know, the Bog King is... um, unwell." This drew amused chuckles from the majority of the group. It seemed they already knew of his predicament. "I don't know how you did it before, but now that I'm here, I respectfully request you leave his wellbeing in my care. I would like... to do everything I can to make this bearable for him."

There were more than a few grins from the crowd, as well as a smattering of applause. It appeared they supported her taking over. This made one half of Marianne relax, but the other half tense. Was there a specific _reason_ why they let her worm her way in so easily? Was Bog an absolute _monster_ when he didn't feel well? Sure, he was irritable now, but was this only stage one? Could he get _worse_?

Before she gave herself time to second guess her actions, Marianne demanded one of the goblins to take her to wherever the kitchen happened to be. She made Bog's tea in silence, stubbornly keeping her mind on things other than his allergies. This subject only entered her mind again when she closed the door to his room behind her, cup of tea in hand. Bog was sitting up in bed, looking restless and a little bored. He perked when she appeared. "Oh, there you are. You were gone so long..."

"What?" Marianne teased, handing him the tea. "You thought I'd get lost? You know me a little better than that, Bog."

"Not lost," he mumbled into the cup. "I thought you... might have left..."

She swatted at his head playfully. "Never. Once you're finished that, go to bed."

He drained the rest of the tea and Marianne set the cup on a nearby table. "It's really not that easy." He scowled, gesturing pointedly to the bags under his eyes. "Or else I would."

"Do you know any strategies to help with that?" Marianne glared right back.

Too exhausted to keep up the charade, Bog sighed and waved one hand to a shelf a ways up the wall, stuffed to bursting with scrolls and parchment of all kinds. "Reading normally helps, but I can never concentrate like~" he was cut off by a sneeze, which merely served to prove his point.

"I can read to you, if you want." The flicker of surprise and hope that passed across the king's face told Marianne all she needed to know. She flitted to the shelf. "Which one are you reading right now?"

"The thick one on the end."

She pulled the scroll from its place and drifted down to the bed. Bog moved over a bit so she could sit next to him. The bedding eased under her, and she was surprised that sitting on a piece of wood could be so comfortable. "Now, you lie down."

"Yes mum," but Bog shifted until he was laying on his side, head on a pillow, eyes fixed on her. With this, she began.

Marianne wasn't sure how long she'd been reading. For not being a bookish person, she found herself sinking deeper and deeper into the story until it covered her like water. She must have trailed off at some point, because when the scroll ended she realized she hadn't been speaking for a while. Quickly, she glanced down at Bog to see if he had noticed, then a warm smile overtook her face.

In sleep, the almighty Bog King, for all his sharp bits and pointy pieces, greatly resembled one of Dawn's stuffed animals. His face more relaxed than she'd ever seen, mouth slightly open, shoulder plates drifting up and down in accordance to his soft breath. A spot of drool wet the pillow, but somehow Marianne found it made him all the more endearing.

Body acting without the interference from her mind, Marianne reached down and gently stroked the top of Bog's head. He shifted a little, but didn't wake. Seeing him so vulnerable, seeing how he _trusted_ her to look out for him, warmed Marianne's heart the same way his body warmed hers.

At some point, she felt she ought to leave him be. However, as her wings were pinned between her back and the headboard of the bed, she couldn't fly out. She didn't want to wake Bog by moving, seeing as how much time it took for him to get to sleep. Out of options, she merely sat there. It wasn't entirely unpleasant, the scenery was easy on the eyes, both outside and inside Bog's room.

She didn't know how long she watched him, but her eyes began to droop. She wouldn't be sure when she fell asleep until she awoke.

* * *

Bog opened his eyes, feeling much more rested than he had in weeks. Why, he felt good enough to _rule_ again! Sure, his nose felt like it had enough liquid to produce a rainstorm, and his eyes felt as moisture-deprived as the Autumn leaves, but his headache was gone, and energy had returned to his limbs. He felt like a _king_ again!

A tiny movement beside him made him freeze where he lay. Slowly, tentatively, he looked over his shoulder.

A grin crossed his face. There, beside him, scroll still in her lap, was Marianne. Her chest moved slightly in her slumber, face calm as he'd never seen it before, without any trace of smirking or sarcasm. While one hand remained curled softly around the scroll, the other was resting on the hilt of her sword. _Always prepared, that one._

Using as few movements as he could, Bog pulled up one of the blankets to her shoulders then settled into his pillows again.

Maybe he could sleep for just a little longer.

 _ **END**_


End file.
